I am quite sure that prior to losing Ely, I never experienced loneliness before.
Sure, I have been alone. And in fact, I generally cherish my “alone time.” I remember once when Ely was about to fly to the US on a business trip, and he was stressed about the flight, I said to him: “I can only dream of 12 hours to myself. It sounds amazing.”
So being alone is definitely not the issue – at least not for me. I enjoy having time to myself, to reflect, to read, to learn.
But this is something else entirely.
I think the best analogy I can find comes from the world of research that I was involved in when I was in graduate school. My research at the time was focused on enhancement of prosthetic devices for amputated limbs. It had been well-documented that amputees often still felt as if their amputated limbs were present. We actually tried to harness this feeling by creating a prosthetic hand with fingers which could be activated when the person thought about moving them. This wasn’t “hocus pocus.” The thought of moving the hand actually caused physical movement of the remaining muscles and/or tendons in the arm which were associated with that movement. In case you’re wondering, the design was not successful, because it was too hard to isolate the movements that we wanted, and it was too variable among people.
The point, though, is that the brain still “remembered” the missing limb. In fact, many amputees not only could feel the presence of the missing limb, but also unfortunately had pain associated with it – a phenomenon called “phantom pain.” Phantom pain was in the past thought to be psychological, but in fact, has been shown to be physiological and truly present in the brain. In any case, it is a very real experience for many amputees.
So back to the loneliness.
Shortly after Ely passed away, a good friend of mine who had also been widowed – at a very young age – sent me a recommendation for a book called “When will I stop hurting?” by June Cerza Kolf. It was a nice book – short and practical – and included exercises for helping a person deal with grief. One of the exercises was to write down what type of wound most closely resembles what you are experiencing. Immediately, and without hesitation, I thought of amputation. At the time, I wasn’t thinking of phantom pain, but it just felt like a part of me had been amputated.
Over a year has gone by. A very long, difficult year, I must say. Being alone isn’t the problem – thank G-d I have my children, extended family and friends. The problem is the phantom pain. There is something deeply missing, and my brain still thinks it should be there, still feels the pain that it is not.
So how do I deal with this?
One way I deal with it is by distraction. That is certainly not the best way, but sometimes it is necessary. Another way I deal with it is through certain friends – people who understand me a bit more deeply – and who I can connect to at a personal level. Of course, each of them has their own lives, and I cannot expect them to “fill” this missing piece inside of me. That would be wrong, not to mention unrealistic. But these connections are infinitely invaluable to me.
But most of the time, without distractions and without my soulful friends, I am forced to deal with it in a very different way. I try to do this by looking inward and upward. Inward – to connect to myself more, and find the company that I crave within my own self. And upward – with prayer directed to Hashem that He helps me heal this wound.
How is that possible? If there’s been an amputation, doesn’t that mean the part you lost can’t be replaced? Yes. And on a certain level, my loss will never be repaired. The analogy holds true.
But at the same time, this is different than the loss of a limb. A limb is physical. A physical object is finite. But the part of me that has been amputated is spiritual in nature, and that is most certainly infinite. I have had glimpses of this infinite nature of the human heart and soul, and the ability to heal through deep, human connection. This thought gives me true comfort, and even during my non-distracted, phantom pain moments, I continue to have an appreciation and understanding of the complexities and the beauty of human emotion. I believe that in the future, this will become more and more clear for me personally, and I pray that in the meantime, I can be zoche to use this experience to bring additional light and love into the world.
We are all human. We are all connected. And in this time of heightened isolation due to the disease that the entire world is combating, we must always remember: at the deepest of levels, we are not alone.